Rock On: A Bully Romance (The Rockstars of Hollywood Hill)

by E. M. Moore

  Wow, no wonder why Ian hates me. He would’ve disliked anyone the record company brought here. I can understand the band’s reasoning for not trusting them. Like with anything business-related, sometimes decisions can blur the line into personal, even when it’s not meant to. But, it’s always personal for someone.

  Finnick slides the spatula under the first pancake and smiles when he checks underneath it to find that the bottom matches the top. He pulls a stack of plates out of the cupboard, flips the pancake onto the first one and then turns to hand it to me. I smile when I take it. I admit, I wasn’t sure if he was going to involve me in this breakfast or not. Maybe we’re both starting to come around to realize that neither one of us is the other’s enemy. I only hope the others feel the same way. Last night could’ve been a turning point for all of us. Not about my job, but about what’s really important.

  I head to the fridge to get out the butter and syrup. I place them on the counter in case any of the other guys decide to wake up sometime this next century and then spread butter over my pancake. “Is there anything you guys can do about it?”

  Finnick concentrates on the pancake in front of him before he says, “Eventually, I think. We have no bartering power right now though. We owe them an album. Until then, we can’t do shit.”

  I sit back in my seat. The first bite of my pancake still skewered by my fork. I see where he’s coming from. Right now, they’re in breach of their contract. They can’t go making demands because they’re the ones in the wrong, but that doesn’t mean it will always be like that. “I have faith in you guys,” I say.

  Finnick’s body relaxes even further at my words. He looks over at me, a small grin sliding over his face. “I don’t think you understand how much we need to hear people say that.”

  My stomach warms, and it hits me that I don’t think these guys have much of a support system. They don’t have it with their record label, and I honestly haven’t heard them talk about family or friends. Maybe I was wrong when I thought their relationship wasn’t strong. Maybe that’s the only thing these guys have, the only thing keeping them together.

  Finnick continues to make pancakes. Enough for the two of us and the rest of the guys. None of the others are up yet when he finishes, so he puts the remaining pancakes in a Tupperware bowl and puts them in the fridge, so the guys can heat them in the microwave when they get up.

  I excuse myself, telling him I need to shower. Already, I feel better. My headache is waning and eating pancakes did a lot of good for settling my stomach. But I’m also inspired. Seeing as how this will probably be an off day for the guys, I take the quickest shower I’ve ever taken, slap some makeup on, and then tiptoe to the top floor where all the instruments are. I’ve been itching to get my hands on one of these ever since I walked up here the first time.

  The first guitar I come across is one I’ve seen Finnick use before inside the booth. I pick up the acoustic, smiling. Finnick had made the prettiest, smoothest notes come out of this. Notes that turned my insides out, like he was unwrapping my soul. I want to do the same with my songs. I want to make people feel something. I want to tell them a story.

  I adjust the strap and make sure the guitar’s tuned before I sit on the couch and bring out the notebook with the song I’ve been writing in it. I play the first few notes, getting a handle on the instrument, and then play it from the top. First, I play just the notes I’ve had in my head. When I get that down, I start with the lyrics. I make a few changes and then start from the top again.

  While I sing, a smile crosses my face. Goosebumps even course up and down my arms. When I end the song with a flurry of notes, I sit back. This is probably the best song I’ve written to date. It’s—

  “Wow,” a voice says behind me.

  My body locks up. I turn toward the stairs in time to see the figure I knew belonged to that voice.

  “Aisley,” Finnick says. “That was…beautiful.”

  14

  My heart careens in my chest. I stand abruptly, almost walking right into the coffee table and coming to an abrupt, face-plant stop. I catch myself at the last minute and then sweep the strap off me. “I’m sorry,” I say. My face is burning. My mind keeps getting caught on the words that he thought my song was beautiful, but the rational part of my brain is telling me that’s only what I wanted him to say. It’s only what I’ve been dreaming about since I was a little girl writing terrible songs about the playground and school in her bedroom. I wanted someone else to think I was great, not just me.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, putting his hand out. “Don’t stop.”

  He has his glasses and rings on again. The sight of him makes my stomach turn in a way I recognize I feel around him more and more. I like Finnick. I don’t just want to kiss him.

  Shit. I always thought he was good looking. Hell, they’re all hot. They’re easy on the eyes. Their confidence, even when using it to be mean to me, was taunting me. Half a “you know you want this”, and half me telling myself I shouldn’t.

  Finnick is the easiest to like though. He was probably the easiest to develop this crush on, even when I knew it was a dumb idea. Heather’s words hang in the air above me. Don’t get pregnant. She wasn’t fucking wrong. Not that I would. There are precautions for that, but that wasn’t what she actually meant either. It’s like she knew I’d end up liking them all.

  “Aisley?” Finnick says, recapturing my attention.

  I put the guitar back in its stand and try to move past him, but he grabs my arm.

  “Where are you going?” he asks. He’s half laughing, which makes me want to crawl into a hole and die of embarrassment. I can’t believe I thought I’d be alone up here. I guess the temptation of the music was just too much to think rationally. This is their recording studio. Of course, one of them would come up here.

  “Downstairs,” I say.

  He doesn’t let me go. In fact, he tightens his grip, so that we end up eye-to-eye. His amber brown eyes churn as he stares at me. Even right now, I can tell he’s trying to read my face, trying to guess what I’m thinking, and if what he’s said in the past is proof, he probably already knows what’s building inside me. “There’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he says.

  Why am I so embarrassed, anyway? It’s not like I haven’t let other people hear me. Heather has heard every single one of my songs. But this one…it’s so much more raw, emotional. My eyes widen. The reason sinks in when I understand why I’m so embarrassed right now. The song is about them. It’s about all of this. I wrapped up all of my feelings, tied it to words, and set them free in a chorus and a few verses.

  I snap my mouth shut. Finnick’s lifting his fingers, and they’re getting dangerously close to my cheek. My heart seizes when his fingertips finally make contact. Heat blooms, like he’s poked me with an iron brand. The touch is so clear, so meaningful that I wonder if I’ll ever be able to scrape it away afterward. I won’t be able to. I know it. I’ll crave it. I’ll crave him.

  “When you said you were a songwriter, I had no idea,” he says, his voice taking on an awe-like quality. “So many people say they want to do and be things. I don’t know, maybe I’ve become jaded, but wow, Aisley.”

  “Yeah?” I ask, my blood pumping so hard I can feel it in my wrists.

  His amber eyes are intent on mine. I can tell he’s not lying. Excitement radiates from his person like electric shocks. We’re standing almost nose-to-nose, neither one of us making any attempt to step back this time. “Yeah,” he says. “I wouldn’t lie about this.”

  I laugh nervously, my gaze tracking away to look at the floor. I’m too caught up in emotion to look him in the eyes right now. I feel raw, exposed. I don’t think he understands how much this means to me. My family—Heather, even—they tolerate my passion. They never actively discuss it with me, yet they never try to change the subject when I bring it up either. I thought maybe that’s how this was supposed to be. But this, what Finnick’s said? I can still feel my skin buzzi
ng. This must be what it feels like to have people believe in you. Truly believe in you.

  Then again, he’s only heard one song. I need to get a grip.

  I step out of his reach, but then immediately miss the feel of his fingertips grazing my cheek. “I should’ve asked first,” I say, motioning toward the guitar in the stand. “I’m sorry.”

  “Forget about the stupid guitar,” Finnick bites out. His eyes are leveled on me. Intensity flares in the amber color, turning me inside out again. “I’m impressed.”

  Those words. Fuck.

  Without thinking, I move forward. I press my lips hard against his, taking him by surprise. A strangled noise sounds in the back of his throat, and that’s when the full capacity of what I just did hits me.

  I just kissed Finnick. I’m kissing Finnick.

  I step back immediately, my fingers moving up to cover my lips. I feel the need to hide them away. I can’t believe I did that. “I’m—”

  “Stop saying sorry,” he says, his voice coming out in a whoosh. He peels my hands away from my lips, his gaze dropping down to look at them. He’s in my personal space again. I’m breathing his air. I’m feeling his touch. His fingertips trace my arms, fluttering over my skin until my insides dance. “I’m going to kiss you,” Finnick says. “And not as a surprise, but because I mean to. Because I want to.”

  He makes good on his promise. His lips brush against mine first, like he wants to take his time. Totally different than the impulsive, close-lipped smack I gave him. He said he was going to mean it, and I can tell he does. I open for him when he presses further, and then we both dissolve into one another.

  His hands come around me, pulling me that much closer to him. My hands squeeze in between us, and I place my palm over his jawline, then work my fingers back into his hair, splaying over his neck until my other hand joins it.

  We kiss until my lips are swollen and my throat is parched. He ends it like he started it, letting our lips touch lightly, lingering like he wants to remember this moment just as much as I do. His hands smooth down my arms until they capture my hands in his. His hands are rough. Hardened patches of skin cling to his fingertips from all the years of him plucking at guitar strings without a pick. When he pulls away, his amber eyes are bright. “I thought you were different,” he says, something like relief flooding him. “From the first moment you came in the house.”

  I don’t try to stop his words this time. I try not to apologize or make excuses. I just listen.

  Instead of hearing more words that make me want to kiss him again, though, footsteps sound on the bottom step. I jump and move away, breaking contact with Finnick. “You up here, bro?” Ian’s husky voice asks.

  “Yeah,” Finnick says, looking over his shoulder. He doesn’t seem bothered about moving away from me. He’s not trying to hide anything, so I don’t know why I’m putting even more space between us. I just feel like I have to.

  “Dude, I’m fucking—” When he looks up to see us both, he stops talking. He looks between me and Finnick, gaze narrowing slightly as he takes the two of us in. I know my face is flush. Finnick, I think, is the opposite. He looks calm, cool, collected, not like he just had the best kiss of his life.

  Fuck. It was, too, wasn’t it?

  “Hungover?” Finnick asks, laughing.

  “Yeah,” Ian says. He concentrates fully on his cousin then. I can tell his eyes are asking questions his words aren’t. “Breakfast?”

  “There are pancakes in the fridge,” Finnick says. “Just heat them up.” Ian starts to head back down, but Finnick asks, “Is anyone else up yet?”

  Ian shakes his head. “I doubt Sean will be up anytime soon. You know he can’t hold his alcohol. Archer’s not alive yet either.”

  “Okay, I’ll be down in a minute.”

  Ian’s hard gaze sweeps to me one more time. I feel my body turn to stone under his callous scrutiny. Once he’s out of view, Finnick turns and reaches for me. I don’t know if it’s just because he’s naturally reaching for me again and it just happened to be in time with the moment Ian walked down the stairs, or if he did it on purpose.

  When I look into his eyes, it’s hard to imagine he did it because he was trying to hide what happened between us from Ian, but that doesn’t mean my brain doesn’t try to make it a thing. Hell, that’s why I did it. I moved away because I didn’t want to see Ian’s reaction. I didn’t want him to ruin it for me.

  Finnick curls his finger around my ear, taking strands of my hair with it. He’s quiet now, too, a growing blush deepening the color of his cheeks. That perfect pout shows up in his lower lip, and when he speaks, he sounds less like the rockstar and more like the sweetest guy I’ve never known. “I hope I didn’t take that too far, too soon.”

  Words are hard.

  I open my mouth to say something back, but I end up just shutting it again. I have the urge to tell him “I’m sorry” for like the hundredth time, but he’s already told me not to say that, so I just stare at him until the silence stretches out like a yawn that won’t end.

  “Aisley?” Ian’s voice calls out.

  I feel his voice all the way to my toes. I don’t know if Finnick has just tuned my body or what, but I can feel everything. “Yeah?” I ask, glad that my voice came out pretty steady despite the emotions coursing through me right now.

  “Come down and heat this up for me.”

  Finnick starts to scowl, but I shake my head to tell him not to. It doesn’t matter. I am here to do exactly what Ian’s asked, and just because I kissed Finnick once doesn’t mean I think all that’s going to change. Hell, I can’t even process what’s just happened.

  I give him a fleeting smile and then start for the stairs. When I get down there, Ian’s hands are on the countertop, and he’s leaning over a plate of pancakes. It’s obvious he hasn’t even tried to warm them up himself. In fact, his head looks like it’s somewhere else far from here.

  I slip past him, grabbing the plate and placing it in the microwave for a minute. When the timer hits thirty seconds, I flip the pancakes and put them back in. Footsteps behind me tell me Finnick’s followed both of us down here. I dare to look around. Something tells me I need to, and when I do, I avert my gaze again. Whatever is being communicated between Finnick and Ian isn’t good. They’re practically having an argument with their eyes.

  When the microwave beeps, I take the pancakes out and set them in front of Ian. “Here you go.” While they’re both still preoccupied staring at one another, I grab a bottle of water out of the fridge and the pain relievers off the counter and tiptoe toward Sean’s room. I leave both things on his nightstand. The red-haired guy is currently on his side, facing away from the door. There’s too much light in the room, so before I leave, I pad toward the curtains and close them for him again. For someone who has one of the best rooms in the whole house, he really isn’t using it to his advantage. I’d love to wake up to the sun on my face and the view of the ocean and sand.

  After I close Sean’s door quietly behind me and make my way back out into the living room, I hear the tail end of a clipped conversation between Ian and Finnick. And actually, the only thing I hear is Finnick saying, “Fuck you.” When I finally get out there, Ian’s the only one standing there. He’s casually eating his pancakes like nothing’s happened. I spare him only one glance and then make my way to my bedroom.

  I swear I can still feel Finnick’s lips on me, like a ghost or an imprint. But his words, the ones he said about my song, they’re there, too, and it doesn’t matter what the rest of the guys do or say, they can’t take that away from me.

  15

  When I walk upstairs later to see about lunch, I pause at the top step. To my right, I can already see that the guys are hanging out on the back deck, Sean and Archer now joining the other two. Finnick sees me and gets right to his feet, pulling the sliding glass door open. “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say back, trying to act as if I haven’t replayed the moment we had this morning
over and over in my head ever since. “I was just coming up to see if you wanted lunch?”

  His eyes widen a fraction. “I’d love lunch. Do you want to go somewhere, or—?”

  My face colors. “I meant everyone. I can make sandwiches again?” I offer.

  His cheeks redden. I didn’t think he could get embarrassed like that, but he does. It’s adorable. “Right,” he says. “Of course. Lunch with everyone.”

  Archer pushes into the room, nearly knocking Finnick over. “What’s up, Assistant?” he says.

  He does a double-take, eyes narrowing at Finnick and I standing so close together. Under his scrutiny, I put a bit of space between us.

  “I’m throwing hot dogs on the grill,” he says casually like he’s decided there’s nothing there that shouldn’t be. I feel worse that he thinks that. I feel like what happened between Finnick and I is probably all over my face.

  Finnick motions with his hands. “There you go. We’re all set for lunch.”

  “Finnick,” Ian calls out from his spot on the deck. “The fuck? Are we going to talk about this or not?”

  I look behind Finnick to his cousin. He’s wearing his ever-present scowl. “What’s going on?” I ask.

  “Mr. Nolan. We finally called him back. We got read the riot act about having a party here.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “Yeah,” Finnick says. “It wasn’t pleasant.” He lowers his voice and steps closer. “I wouldn’t be surprised if you get a call too. We didn’t say you were involved in it at all, but if you didn’t already tell him we were partying…”